


The Red String of Fate - Other Side

by AzureSummoner



Series: The Red String of Fate [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Consensual Sex, Darkfic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Manipulation, Oral Sex, Seduction, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch needs Therapy, Soulmates, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzureSummoner/pseuds/AzureSummoner
Summary: The events before and during Red String as seen from Emet-Selch's perspective.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: The Red String of Fate [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679860
Comments: 29
Kudos: 122





	1. The Beginning of a Warrior's End

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING** This story deals with themes that readers might find upsetting, particularly manipulation and unhealthy relationships. PLEASE mind the tags and read the notes before each chapter. If you see something you're curious about/want to discuss something I've written, feel free to drop me a comment. If you feel there's a tag I should add please mention it in the comments. Thank you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So marks the beginning of the end for the Warrior of Light and Darkness.

It’s the last thing that Emet-Selch expects when he first lays eyes on the Warrior of Light, but there's no mistaking the color. He hasn’t seen a shade of blue so _dazzling_ in more than twelve thousand years. And while it has been diluted by Hydaelyn’s devastating blow, there’s no doubt that his lifetimes of searching and pining and holding onto the thinnest slivers of hope haven’t been for naught. But oh! How fate plays him for a fool. It’s any wonder that he hasn’t been able to locate Persephone’s shard on the Source before now. _Hydaelyn_ has claimed her.

When he sees that color -- sees _her_ among the violaceous backdrop of Lakeland it takes every onze of his restraint not to seize her then and there. _Curse these mortal bodies_ , he thinks. His heart races with an excitement that he hasn't felt in so very, very long. Palms sweat within the silk gloves and a nausea roils in his chest. His mouth is as arid as a desert. This is _not_ how he had anticipated their reunion. He should fly to her side and draw her into his arms, make her look deep into his eyes -- but what good would that do? Among the Sundered shards of the Convocation that Emet-Selch has elevated himself, not _one_ of them offered the slightest hint of recognition until their memories had been restored. And as far as _she_ is concerned, the wretched Mother Crystal has surely taken steps to ensure that the Warrior is entirely ignorant of her true self. 

Emet-Selch clenches his fists. As the Warrior takes stock of her strange new surroundings, so does the Ascian appraise this vessel where the pieces of his beloved reside, what little he can gauge from such distance. If he could get closer, stay the hands of she and her Scions to buy himself some time, then perhaps… An idea comes to mind. There may be a way to entice her before things come to blows. Her motley crew will bend to the whims of their hero, surely. He’ll ingratiate himself within their little group, charm his way into the Warrior’s graces, and most certainly, with the right _influence_ , even she will be made to remember.

***

When Emet-Selch does infiltrate the band of Scions he finds that he has immediate regrets. They could _at least_ have the decency to act civil, but then he’s expecting rather a lot from such crude imitations of life. The Ascian isn’t sure which of them is worse -- the Elezen brat with the sharp tongue, or her twin who (for someone so much shorter) attempts to look _down_ his nose at Emet-Selch? Perhaps the Astrologian who might lull even the scholars of Garlemald to slumber with his speech. A pity that he’s the only one among the group who has studied his history. The child, Minfilia, is hardly remarkable, an imitation of a dead woman. Then there’s the Hyur male. No, he won’t stand to be pushed around by Lahabrea’s used clothing.

That leaves the Crystal Exarch -- admittedly an interesting fellow -- but more importantly, the Warrior herself.

The hair is all wrong. The color is close but it's too straight, too manicured. Her eyes aren't as bright as they once were. Perhaps this will change with the restoration of her remaining shards. And then there's her _name_ . Hingan, perhaps? It's so… disjointed from _Persephone_ , the syllables are too sharp. Most of all is the way that she looks at him. As expected there is no flicker of recognition to soothe Emet-Selch's ailing heart, but then he has expected as much. It is not, however, a lost cause. Within this mortal form it _is_ still his sleeping bride. There are _other ways_ to dredge the imprints on a soul, but he'll need to play his hand carefully. If he’s too soft then she won’t take him seriously. Too overt and they will cast him out as an enemy. He can endure patiently for just a bit longer.

And so, Emet-Selch bides his time.

***

The days tick by as the Scions plot their next move, which involves finding their companion by the name Y'shtola. Their meeting is incredibly disappointing. For the Miqo'te's alleged _gift_ of aether sight she at first sets her backwoods troupe against the Warrior, believing her to be a Light Warden. The Ascian does note an interesting disparity among the group as they reconcile, for it seems that the Exarch is regarded with high suspicion. He tucks this bit of knowledge away for a later occasion and continues to follow the Scion's exploits through the Greatwood. It's there that Emet-Selch spies his opportunity. 

He comes upon the dour lot as they regroup in Fanow. Or perhaps it's more fitting to say that the strange Viis women have come upon _him_ in a moment of respite. It matters not when all paths lead to the same result. It's here that he finds the Scions down by one and mourning their loss, as brave Y'shtola has sacrificed herself in the line of battle. But then the Warrior recounts a gust of wind at the woman's fall, which sends the lot into animated discussion. This is the detail that piques Emet-Selch's interest, for it seems that the Miqo'te has used forbidden magics to cast herself into the lifestream. How positively _foolish_ these mortals are, but… at last, patience shall bear its reward, for who better to traverse the waters of the Underworld than its own beloved?

Of course the Scions are reluctant to receive help from an _Ascian_ , but it's not as though they have a choice. One by one they relent, and one by one they sally forth into the Greatwood, to find a place where the lifestream runs rich. This is where Emet-Selch catches the Warrior away from prying ears. 

“Everything comes with a price,” he tells her. The look she casts upon him is measured judgement, but through her harsh expression she’s willing to listen.

“And what is it that you want?” she asks. 

“What is a life worth to you?” The question hangs between them. Emet-Selch watches the woman’s brows knit together, her fists clench as she turns his words over in her mind.

“What sort of question is that?” she growls at him. “A life is something priceless! And Y’shtola is a dear friend. I would give anything to have her returned.”

“‘Tis a relief to hear, for the ferryman demands payment. Stealing a soul away from the Underworld is no trivial thing.” When the Warrior levels him with a cold glare he cooly shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, my dear. Merely abide by them.”

She scowls. “Then name your price, Emet-Selch.”

There it is. No price is too high, is it? “I will, in time,” he promises. “But for now let us away. We mustn’t dawdle if we are to recover your Y’shtola cat.” 

Oh! How the Warrior fumes at his words, and for a moment she appears ready to strike. She refrains however, not willing to risk the chance at rescuing her friend. If only she could see the positively wicked smile on the Ascian’s face as he turns his back on her. Plucking the Miqo’te woman from the lifestream will be as child’s play to one such as him, but the Warrior need not know that. She overcomes her internal struggle and follows along after Emet-Selch, and at some length they discover the place where Y’shtola’s aether has gathered. The Ascian restores her, as promised, and as the Scions rejoice, grudgingly acknowledging their unsavory comrade’s assistance, they are blissfully ignorant of all that it will cost them.

So marks the beginning of the end for the Warrior of Light and Darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you a reader or writer who enjoys FFXIV fics? Consider joining a friendly and enabling group at the Emet-Selch discord! This story wouldn't exist without them. :)
> 
> https://discord.gg/ftFnYbe
> 
> Find me on Twitter: @AzureSummoner


	2. One Night (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “...One night?” The words are barely above a whisper but they thunder in the Ascian’s ears.
> 
> “Hmm,” he hums quietly against her jaw, letting her question hang.
> 
> “And you… you want…”
> 
> “To fuck you?" He practically shudders at the gasp that's torn from her throat. "Come dear, there's no need for modesty."

The last thing the Warrior might have expected was for the Ascian to appear in her private rooms, but then the life of a hero bears inherent risks. Emet-Selch half expects her to scream or to throw the nearest object at him. Instead she steels herself and clenches her fists at her sides, a scowl marring her lovely features. 

"You have some nerve," she hisses. The venom sends a delightful shiver up his spine. It's clear that he's caught her at a most inopportune time, just as he'd hoped. The hour is indecent and she wears only a thin slip. The stiff peaks of her nipples protrude beneath the silk under the cool night air. Such a tantalizingly  _ feminine _ detail on the body of the famed  _ Ascian slayer _ .

"None of that." Emet-Selch wags a finger in her direction, offering the mockery of a sympathetic smile. "I've not come to do you any harm."

"If you're looking to talk you could have waited until morning." The Warrior continues to grumble as she moves to close the open window, giving the Ascian an opportunity to admire her long, bared legs and shapely bottom. When the woman turns back around her eyes scan the room until they finally settle on something. Her dressing gown, so inconveniently draped over the chair beside her uninvited caller. Emet-Selch stretches his fingers out to ghost over the translucent fabric, imagining how little it would do to cover the Warrior's body. Would she pull it on regardless, as if to save her modesty? He chuckles, and with a flick of his wrist tosses the garment towards the woman. 

"'Tis more appropriate to address matters now, you'll find," he says. He notes that, in her distraction, she doesn't bother to slip the gown on, instead balling it up in front of her. 

"Matters," she repeats. 

"Don't tell me that you've forgotten our exchange in Fanow," the Ascian sighs, and he watches the sharp rise and fall of her chest. "I  _ did _ warn that all things carry a price."

That's stunned her into momentary silence. Her mind is churning, racing with possibilities. Emet-Selch can tell by the flash in her eyes. Something clicks into place and he's surprised to see her features harden rather than falter.

"Y-you… you want…"

He offers a casual shrug. "How could I not? My humblest apologies for being so forward, but more than once I've caught your eyes… lingering." The flush of the Warrior's cheeks is encouraging. She hurries to avert her gaze, but the Ascian has already found his way in.

"I-I'm not sure what you're talking about," she stammers, fidgeting with the sheer gown between her hands. 

"Forgive me then, perhaps a trick of the light." Emet-Selch dares to take one soft step forward, leaning his weight onto his front most foot. When the woman doesn't budge he's bold enough to take another. "Would you fault me if it were wishful thinking?"

Careful now. Her eyes are trained on his once more, blazing sapphire searing into molten gold. She's wary. Distrustful. "What's your game, Emet-Selch? I was hoping to get to sleep at a reasonable hour."

"Your hands," he gestures, causing the woman to belatedly upturn an empty palm in confusion.

"What of them?"

"...May I?" He reaches, only for her to flinch away as if his touch would burn. A pause, and then he tries again. The tips of his silk gloved fingers whisper across her skin as he takes her small hand in his, stroking his thumb across the palm, tilting it this way and that. 

"Their delicacy belies the Warrior's prowess," he murmurs, tightening his grip ever so slightly when he thinks she might pull away. "You're a woman trained in the arcane arts, but these--" His thumb brushes over a rough patch between her thumb and forefinger, another at the edge of her middle digit. "The wearings of… not a blade, perhaps an implement. A botanist's shears, I think."

At that she wrests her hand away, surprise plain on her face. "So you've seen me running errands for the Mean, what of it?"

Defensive, but there's one more similarity to her old self, her  _ true  _ self checked off. Emet-Selch tilts his head curiously. "Have you ever seen a Garlean rose?" he asks, and with a snap of his fingers he conjures a flower that lights up the Warrior's face. Curiosity, he thinks, is a powerful motivator.

"Little blooms in the harsh clime of Garlemald, but this peculiar species learned to adapt." He twirls the stem between his gloved fingers, showcasing a brilliant blossom that shifts from a cerulean blue at its core to a deep violet shade at its edges. Emet-Selch watches its reflection in the woman's eyes, satisfied that he's secured her interest. 

"I've never seen a blue rose," she admits, transfixed by the novelty. "This isn't some crossbreed, or engineered?"

"Not at all, my dear. 'Tis as natural as you or I." Its unusual color is entirely unlike the red and yellow hues of its Eorzean cousins. Emet-Selch would know. It is  _ his _ concept, after all. He half expects the Warrior to make some quip about the innate qualities of an Ascian, finding himself pleasantly surprised when she does not. "Go on. You may touch it."

He smiles as she lets her dressing gown fall to the floor and hesitantly reaches out, fingertips brushing over the delicate petals before she plucks the offered stem. For a moment her aether glows just a little brighter as she ponders his creation, as if something within the soul is struggling to bubble to the surface.  _ So the theory has merit _ . This isn't  _ one shard _ as his ascended compatriots had been, this is Persephone seven times rejoined. Something is there, sleeping, dormant, but there  _ are _ memories embedded in her soul.  _ She will remember _ . 

So entranced is the Warrior that she pays little mind as the Ascian begins a slow pace around her, aurum gaze sweeping appreciatively over her tempting lips, the long neck, the bared skin of her shoulders. He can't help but reach up to trail silk covered fingertips up to her elbow. His touch lingers as he moves behind her and presses in, softly, while his aether strokes along the edges of hers. The way she  _ shivers _ sends a pulse of desire tingling from his stomach straight down to his loins. She's not flinching away so he extends his essence to curl around her, unseen tendrils sliding over her skin until they come to embrace her like a lover.  _ You know this touch _ , he thinks,  _ let yourself feel me _ . The shift is gradual at first, barely noticeable, but the woman begins to relax. The tight posturing of her shoulders softens and her breathing becomes calm and deep. Emet-Selch feels her warmth as she leans back against his chest, accepting her current position, and he knows he has her.

"One night," he murmurs hotly, leaning over her shoulder. His lips grace her cheek as he shifts his hands away from her elbows to settle low on her stomach, fingers interlacing. "One night to set aside our differences, to close off the outside world. No Hydaelyn, no Zodiark. Merely two souls sharing a bit of mutual enjoyment."

"Wh-why would you want to?" the Warrior stammers. Growing flustered, is she? Emet-Selch's lips curve into a smile as he lowers his face to her neck, inhaling the light scent of a spring rain. Another similarity that sets a fire burning within. 

"Because I find you  _ very interesting _ ," he muses, voice dipping low and husky. One of her small hands comes to rest over his and he feels himself hardening beneath the elaborate skirts. "And quite lovely besides." He can feel the heat creeping up to her cheeks as he layers compliments. 

"How long has it been since you've been properly treated as a woman?" he presses. The question finds its mark, leaving the Warrior exhaling a shuddering breath. 

"Who has time for that?" she bites back, but there's no conviction behind the words.

"Oh sweet thing, you are  _ more  _ than deserving. If you will let me I would take  _ such _ good care of you."

That has her squirming in his embrace, inadvertently pressing her backside against him. It forces Emet-Selch to clamp down on a hiss in his aroused state. 

"I… I can't…" she mumbles. "What would the Scions think, what would--"

"What does it matter what  _ they _ think?" the Ascian persists. "When is the last time that they looked upon you as a woman with her own desires, rather than a weapon at their command? Be selfish just once in your life, dear Warrior. What is it that  _ you _ want?"

"Heh… No one ever asks what I want."

" _ I'm _ asking."

With the way the Warrior's knees wobble she might have fallen had Emet-Selch not been holding her.  _ This is it, _ he thinks.  _ It's all over now _ . He tightens his grip around her waist as if to proclaim his victory, leering at the woman's lack of resistance. 

“...One night?” The words are barely above a whisper but they thunder in the Ascian’s ears. 

“Hmm,” he hums quietly against her jaw, letting her question hang. 

“And you… you want…”

“To  _ fuck _ you?" He practically shudders at the gasp that's torn from her throat. "Come dear, there's no need for modesty." Emet-Selch accentuates his point by rolling his hips against her backside, letting the Warrior  _ feel _ how  _ very interested _ he is. 

"Oh but you've nothing to worry about," he promises breathlessly against her cheek, "I intend to make this  _ quite  _ enjoyable for you. Just lay back and spread your legs for me. I'll take care of the rest."

"H-here??" she moans. He's highly tempted to slip a hand between her thighs, knowing he'll find her soaked. The idea of it has him grinding his need against her, pressing heated lips to her neck, her jaw, anywhere but her mouth.

"Absolutely not," he hisses. The thought of spoiling their reunion with the Exarch's prying eyes or some other chance for interruption sets his blood boiling. "Take my hand, dear. I have somewhere far more pleasant in mind."

She stumbles slightly when Emet-Selch takes an abrupt step backwards, his fingers curling around one of her small hands as he tugs her along. Toward one of his dark portals.

The blue rose held by the Warrior gradually slips from her fingers and falls to the floor as she follows along, losing herself in golden eyes that promise sin and sex. As they disappear through the aether the blossom, too, dissolves into motes of blue light, thus erasing any trace that the Ascian had ever intruded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you a reader or writer who enjoys FFXIV fics? Consider joining a friendly and enabling group at the Emet-Selch discord! This story wouldn't exist without them. :)
> 
> https://discord.gg/ftFnYbe
> 
> Find me on Twitter: @AzureSummoner


	3. Chapter 3 (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She steadies her breath and straightens, eyes of sapphire tilting up to meet those of gleaming gold. There’s a question written clear within them, almost innocent, as she searches for answers in her keeper’s face. What happens now?
> 
> Now? Emet-Selch reaches up and brushes a silk-dressed thumb across her trembling lower lip in answer. Now he gets what he wants.

Traversing space through umbral aether is second nature to an Ascian, but for one so imbued with _light_ it must be quite the experience. All-consuming darkness pressing in from all sides, dizzying and disorienting as it threatens to overwhelm the Warrior. It’s over as quickly as it had begun. She stumbles onto plush carpeting, one hand holding tight to Emet-Selch’s as the other catches him by the shoulder to level herself. She steadies her breath and straightens, eyes of sapphire tilting up to meet those of gleaming gold. There’s a question written clear within them, almost innocent, as she searches for answers in her keeper’s face. _What happens now?_

Now? Emet-Selch reaches up and brushes a silk-dressed thumb across her trembling lower lip in answer. Now he gets what he wants.

The knowledge that they are now well and truly _alone_ has his blood pounding in his ears. Here before him after thousands and thousands of years is Persephone. His bonded, his beloved, _his_ _Persephone_. No obtrusive Scions. No prying Exarch. No Hydaelyn or Zodiark, no chance for interference. It’s a moment that Emet-Selch has dreamt of for nigh on _eternity_ , and now that the reality is coming to pass it takes every onze of his willpower to stay his delirium. As punishing as it is, letting his god damned emotions run rampant now would spoil everything. He is burdened and weary and has been so terribly _lonely_ , and here is the _one soul_ in all of creation that would be his comfort. If she would only look at him as she once did, stroke his hair and whisper of her love and devotion as she used to. Just a few words or a gentle touch would placate him more than any physical consolation. But her memories of him still slumber, and heavy handedness now would only frighten her away. He must endure only a bit longer, and all that has been promised to him will come to pass. For now though, carnal solace is what has been offered, and Emet-Selch has every intention of taking it. 

He must have let some flicker of sentiment bleed into his expression, for she pulls away. Or perhaps she’s having second thoughts. She’s brave enough to hold his gaze but continues to retreat, at least until her back hits the wall. Well now, what will she do? Emet-Selch ambles toward her, one lazy step after another. There’s no need to rush when she has nowhere to go. Closer, and closer still, his eyes glinting in the soft light. She _could_ dodge to the side, or does she mean to lash out like a cornered animal? 

The Warrior does neither of these things, and now she truly is out of places to run. It’s time to claim his victory. 

Lifting his hands, Emet-Selch languidly braces his palms against the wall to either side of her head. Her soft breaths are sweet to his ears and he shifts subtly closer to hear more, all the while watching her watch him. There’s no fear behind those eyes. Nervousness, yes. A natural response when taking a new partner. Now that’s a bothersome thought. Has she known another since she was reborn into this life? Resentment attempts to make itself known, but not against her. _Never against her_. The fault lies with Hydaelyn, as does fault for all of the misery that he has known. If his beloved has sought comfort in someone else’s arms it is because the blasphemous Mother Crystal has kept them apart. But no longer. 

An unspoken question lingers on the Warrior’s face. _Persephone’s_ face. Emet-Selch parts his lips as if to speak, but no. He dares not ruin the moment. He’s kept her waiting long enough while meandering in his thoughts. He leans down, letting his eyes drift shut as he tilts his head toward her. Close enough to take in her warm sweet breath as his lips hover just above hers. If she were to push him away now he would acquiesce until another day, for there’s no appeal if she does not _want_ this. It’s when the Warrior herself begins to lean in that Emet-Selch seals their lips together, feeling his beloved’s kiss for the first time in more than twelve thousand years.

A second armageddon could have struck at that moment and would only fall on deaf ears, as Emet-Selch’s -- _Hades’_ \-- worldview narrows to only he and the Warrior beneath him. His touch has kindled a spark in her soul. Faint, but it’s there. As if he is a fairytale Prince who has awakened the maiden with true love’s first kiss, some part of her soul has stirred and begins to respond. She’s pressing into him, moving as if trying to recall the steps to a dance she hasn’t practiced in ages. Emet-Selch runs his tongue along her lower lip and she eagerly opens her mouth to him, while he claws his fingers into the wall. That the Warrior would fall under his sway was expected, but to _already_ have stirred some soul-deep instinct within her is threatening to drive him mad. He wants to abandon this modicum of control and tangle his fingers into her hair, suck and bite and mark her up so that all would see she is claimed. He could wrap her legs around his waist and fuck her right here against the wall, or pin her to the floor beneath him and tear off the flimsy nightgown as he buries himself within her. Either was guaranteed to end in failure. If she didn’t become furious with his clumsy desperation after promising a night of debauched delight then she would certainly begin to wonder about his motivations. And deeper down, Hades has never forgotten their first night together so many lifetimes ago. While it’s always been one of his fondest memories he has replayed the scenario so many times in his mind, both in his past existence and the one that he lives now. He wouldn’t change it for anything, but he’s pondered at least a thousand times how he might have done things differently. Well, this may be the only chance he has to do just that. 

It takes some effort to pull himself away, worsened when the Warrior follows after him. Emet-Selch is hard enough that his mind has forgone sense for lust, and here she is pursing her lips for more. Zodiark help him, they’ll never make it to the bed at this rate. Millennia of faceless partners have taught him absolute discipline over his vessels, but then emotions weren’t a concern; he never _wanted_ any of them. They were merely a means to an end, fulfilling a primal need. _This_ on the other hand…

Leading the Warrior along, he makes it halfway across the room before succumbing to his need to _touch_. To embrace, encompass, _devour_. He hasn’t even the willpower to take his hands from her body as he slips around behind her, silk gloves easily sliding over her negligee. From the curve of her hips he drags his hands up, pressing into heated skin--over the flat of her stomach, further up until he’s palming the fullness of her breasts. A deep, guttural growl rumbles from his chest at the press of nipples through the layers of cloth. _Don’t stop_ , he reminds himself through the fog of desire. He continues on to her shoulders, sweeping the locks of hair aside to expose the smooth skin of her neck. Compulsion seizes the man with a need to taste what he sees. The Warrior is gasping as his lips find her skin, a flick of tongue sending shivers down her spine as Emet-Selch teases away the straps of her garment. Bared flesh trembles beneath his fingers as he finds her breasts again, massaging supple flesh and rolling the pert nubs between his fingers. The whimpers that come from beneath him are needy.

Taken in by the passion he pulls the Warrior taut against his body. Pushes his aching arousal against the soft curves of her bottom, grinds his hips against her. Her wanton moaning drives him to near frenzy as he thrusts between her cheeks. He spins her around and crushes his lips to hers, drinking deep of her sweetness as the chemise falls away. Needy fingers dig into the flesh of her ass to hold her steady as he nearly succumbs to rut. _So close now, a few more steps..._

Her small hands tighten into the fabric of his shirt as she opens her mouth to him, letting his tongue lead the dance. Emet-Selch admires her through slitted eyes. _Everything is coming together perfectly_. It’s more than he could have hoped for. Completely entranced, the Warrior is so pliant and willing in his arms. The brilliant blue of her soul is _radiant_ in his presence, as if something deep within her knows that _this_ is where she belongs. He wishes that he could confess everything to her now, promising that they will never again be parted. Only a bit longer. She wouldn’t understand just yet, but she will _soon_.

It’s with great reluctance that Emet-Selch draws back, a thin strand of saliva stretched between their mouths before breaking. The Warrior’s pupils are blown wide with lust, lips glossy and cheeks flushed. At this moment she would do _anything_ for him, but he only needs her to lay back and get comfortable. And so he _shoves_ her, thrilling at the surprise on her face and the bounce of her breasts as she falls back onto the plush bedding, barely catching herself on her elbows. Lips parted just so, chest rising and falling with anticipation. _His_. All his. 

Emet-Selch could easily snap his fingers to divest his clothing, but not today. The Warrior’s soft pants of lust only serve to further his _ache_ , but he’ll tease and titillate her to the fullest before making his claim. His hands move to the jeweled clasp at his collar, popping it open quite deliberately. Next comes the coat with its heavy epaulettes and medals, the clinking of metal and the shift of leather the only sounds between them as he tosses the garment into a chair. The soft slide of silk as the sash follows. The thought of binding her to the bed with it while he ravishes her crosses his mind. Oh, the sounds he would tease from her as she lay at his mercy! But no, that’s not for tonight. Next time. And there _will be_ a next time.

The Warrior’s eyes glitter with fascination as she watches the complicated robes come undone under Emet-Selch’s fingers. Layer after layer tossed upon the chair until at last he stands before her bare chested, wearing only breeches that leave _no doubts_ about his intentions. 

He remembers the old days, bits of memory flashing behind his eyes as he approaches the bed. How eager Persephone always was for his touch, and how _often_ she desired it. And by Zodiark, the things that she would do to seduce him when Hades was in a mood to tease. The positively _scandalous_ suggestions whispered into his ear. _“I’ll be waiting in the bedroom with my legs spread. Hurry up before I get myself off.” “I’m going to tie you up and ride you like one of Lahabrea’s horses.”_ He would be absolutely charmed to have that back now, no matter how much he doesn’t want to talk about Lahabrea. The _begging_. Sometimes she would put herself on display for his approval. Others she would praise him into submission. There was never any doubt that his Persephone had loved, had _worshiped_ Hades, as much as he did her. And somewhere within the Warrior those memories sleep, waiting to be reawakened. 

The bed sinks under Emet-Selch’s weight where he kneels onto the mattress, crawling toward her while she shyly slides herself back. Now, that won’t do. Her wrist is easily captured, her hand brought to his lips where he presses a gentle kiss to her palm. Not what she expected? Her eyes glimmer back at him and she’s biting at her lip. And she speaks. The first words between them since they’ve set foot in this place.

“Before… before you…” Part of Emet-Selch wishes she would continue those thoughts. To vocalize _exactly_ what she expects the Ascian will do to her. “No strings attached, right?”

Well now. That earns a smirk from the man. No strings? Oh, if only she could see it for herself. The red thread that has _always_ bound her to him, and him to her. It twines around her body never to let go, the same way that it has snared Emet-Selch’s neck and threatened to suffocate him through the millennia they’ve spent apart. Ever present, never breaking.

“You’re putting too much thought into this, dear hero.”

It’s not a lie if he merely deflects the question. She appears ready to bite back at him with some caustic response, but the only language Emet-Selch is interested in now is communicated in a far more _primitive_ manner. Latching onto her hips he drags her down beneath him, delighted by the squeak she barely restrains as her face stains red. _Now there’s a lovely sight._ The wide-eyed Warrior blushing like a maiden. Hands raised submissively beside her head, long hair spread out around her. Emet-Selch’s cock _throbs_ with anticipation, but he’ll need to do something about the damned trousers first.

He’s quick to untie the lacings, sitting up to slide the garment down his hips. He breathes in relief as he frees himself from the confining fabric, his length at full attention and hanging heavy between his legs. And she’s _looking_. Whether it’s hunger or apprehension over what she’s about to receive he isn’t sure, but he grins and teases her all the same. It’s the last reprieve she’ll enjoy this evening, for Emet-Selch’s remaining patience has been cast aside along with his trousers, leaving only his all-consuming _need_ for the woman before him.

Her throat bobs as she swallows down her nerves. His hands are on her legs, sliding up her inner thighs to the last barrier between them. Her smallclothes are _soaked_ , he notes smugly, and tugs the offending garment down past her ankles before tossing them to Zodiark knows where. 

No more talk. No more games. 

He pushes her knees apart perhaps a bit _too_ greedily, shivering at her embarrassed gasp as he settles between her thighs. _Still_ shy about this, is she? Oh, but she can’t bring herself to look away. With a sinful smile he hooks her leg over his shoulder, brushing his cheek against her inner thigh, and places a very deliberate kiss so very close to her dripping sex. Glistening wet, all his for the taking. The Warrior tenses and curls her fingers into the sheets. She’ll soon have a very different reason for clinging so desperately to the bedding.

Unable to hold back any longer Emet-Selch lowers himself to her lips, lazily dragging the flat of his tongue between her folds. Deliciously wet and citrusy in his mouth, and how she _whimpers_! The sound of it is like nails down his back, and he grinds his hips into the bed despite the lack of relief it grants. Her scent is familiar, her taste intoxicating, and too eagerly he strokes his tongue against her for more, nectar trickling down his throat as he crests up to her hooded nub. She squirms below his ministrations, the tip of slick muscle drawing circles around her clit before he sucks the sensitive skin between his lips, quick flicks of his tongue against the little bud tearing the sweetest of sounds from her mouth.

Yet she’s still tense, and that won’t do. Emet-Selch wants her _relaxed_ , wants her to _need this_ as badly as he does. And he has a very good idea of how to achieve this. 

His hands roam, sliding up along her stomach to palm the fullness of her breasts, feather-light back down her sides to find her hips. His fingers press into the flesh of her bottom to hold her still against her wiggling about and he buries his face into her sex as though to eat her whole, drunk on her honey and desperate for more. The gasps and the high pitch of her warbled pleasure cause his skin to prickle. What would it take for his Persephone reborn to _really_ let go? Give herself up to ecstasy and tangle her fingers into his hair, panting and moaning and screaming while begging him for more? 

Nudging her apart with the bridge of his nose, Emet-Selch traces his tongue deep through her slit. Slow, broad strokes and gentle pressure, pausing intermittently to suck at the rosy flesh or her swollen clit. Her mounting cries suggest that she’s coming undone and only then does he dare to peer up, basking in the Warrior’s beauty. Biting at her knuckles does nothing to stifle her whines, nor the soft whispers of _“please”_ that reach his ears. Seeing her in such a state makes his arousal even more painfully hard, but he’ll see her sated first. He finds the hand that she’s _not_ gagging herself with and laces his fingers with hers. That tenderness is what finally breaks her, but then his Persephone always was weak to such delicacy. If only the Scions could hear the way she screams for him! Her back arches, thighs trembling in his grip as she loses herself in sweet release, and then she relaxes _oh so completely_ into the bedding. Tension melts away, replaced by quiet gasps and the softening of muscle under his touch.

But the night is still young, and Emet-Selch has so much more to offer.

Slinking up from between her thighs he gets to his knees and begins the slow, agonizing climb up her prone form. A kiss pressed to her hip bone before he dips his tongue into her navel, savoring the moans teased out of her. His lips trail along the expanse of smooth skin between stomach and sternum, body coming to cover hers. Violet-brown hair tickles her ribs before he shifts to suck the flesh of one breast into his mouth, tongue rolling the nipple as he cups the opposite side in his large hand. This is truly divine agony, his arousal mere ilms from her slick sex, so close to the fulfillment he seeks. Her nipple pops from his mouth before he offers the same devotion to the other side, tracing the areola of her wettened breast with a calloused thumb. She lifts from the bed to press up against him, to seek more of his affections, his heated bare skin. Her hands are at his shoulders and sliding around his neck when Emet-Selch at last gives in and claims her mouth, smothering her wanton moans when he settles his weight to slide his cock through her folds. His own growl of desire fills her mouth before he abruptly draws back, and then his teeth are tugging her earlobe. Before he gives in to impatience he murmurs hotly into her ear, " _do you want this?"_

He's not prepared for her to answer immediately, but then she runs her fingers up into his hair in a way that makes his toes curl and breathes back, "gods, _yes_!"

"There are no gods here, my dearest," he leers, sliding his hands beneath her shoulders and peering deep into half-lidded sapphire eyes. "If you wish to extol _anyone_ then I suggest you worship _me_."

With his last spoken word Emet-Selch drags his length back to line himself up with her entrance. The engorged tip of his cock presses into tight muscle until he slowly sinks in, pulling a ragged gasp from the lovely creature pinned beneath him. 

"Oh g-- _Emet-Selch_ ," she pleads, barely above a whisper, "I haven't… _ahh_ … it's been so long…"

His shiver of unadulterated desire turns to ice water down his back with the evolution of her words. So she's taken a lover in this life? His fingers curl possessively around her shoulders with the revelation, his breath hot against her neck. No. This doesn't matter now. He has her, she's with _him_ now, and after tonight she'll never again want for another. 

"Truly, darling?" he muses, licking a stripe up the hollow of her throat to her chin, his lips now hovering over hers. "Then I'll promise to be _most gentle_."

Emet-Selch seals his mouth to hers once more, eager tongue sliding against hers as he eases into her another ilm. She bucks up in response and he groans with the rapture of it as the Warrior wraps around his waist. Her fingers snare in his hair, nails scratch at his scalp in encouragement to continue. She'll probably be a bit sore after this no matter how careful he is, but Emet-Selch _does_ keep his promises. Velvet heat draws him in further, her inner muscles clenching exquisitely around his straining cock. Muted whimpering warns him to slow down as he meets resistance, her body perhaps unused to such a… _large_ intrusion. He waits. Breaking apart to give her breath, he presses hot kisses along her neck and up to her jaw, suckling at the delicate skin. The sounds coming out of her throat carry a tinge of anguish as she struggles to accept him, and he kisses her temple to soothe her woes before whispering to her, “just _breathe_.” It takes a moment for her to fight down her nerves, but bit by bit he feels something within her relax and then _he’s_ the one groaning again as her body allows him to nestle his prick deeper inside. Emet-Selch rocks his hips back the barest amount before pressing forward again to test her readiness. In and out, once again, each small thrust designed to gently stretch her around his girth, to soften her last defenses and seduce her body into accepting _all_ of him. It’s when her fussing turns to contented sighs, punctuated with hitched squeals that he knows she’s _ready_ , and he murmurs his praises to her.

“There’s my girl,” he purrs, “that feels good, doesn’t it?”

And she _sings_ to him, begs him to begin. “ _Please_ , Emet-Selch,” she keens, seeking his mouth once more. “I need… I need…”

“Shh, I said that I would take good care of you,” he teases, flicking his tongue across her pout. “Very, _very_ good care.”

With an easy flex of his hips he’s fully hilted again, smugness in his grin at how hot she is for him. But there's one more thing, something that the Warrior herself isn't even aware of: her aether, that gorgeous blue aura, is _responding_ to his. As if it wants to reach out to Emet-Selch without understanding how or why, in turn possessing her to wrap herself around him physically as best she can. He must treat this with care so as not to overwhelm her, but he allows his own essence of rich violet to curl around her, filling in the spaces that this body can't touch. The reaction is immediate, he sees it in her eyes. Sapphire blue nearly glowing with what he can only attribute to _affection_. And if it were possible for her to relax any further into the bedding then she has done so now, open and receptive to all that he is. 

His bonded. His Persephone, by her true name or any other. _His._ Always his.

Wait. His eyes snap open with alarming lucidity as a thought crosses his mind, and he mentally curses his hastiness.

“Forgive me my dear,” he breathes above her. “There’s a rather important detail that we seem to have overlooked.”

“What?” She leans back and studies Emet-Selch a moment before a scowl crosses her face, the light of clarity returning to her eyes. “Ugh, don’t tell me that you’re stopping…”

“Painful as that may be, I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I were to keep my mouth shut. Unless you’re _inclined_ toward the pitter-patter of little feet.”

“O-oh,” she stammers while turning a bright shade of pink, much to his glee. Every uncovered glimmer of the Persephone from his memories is a thrill, another affirmation that his wife lives on in the Warrior’s form. It stirs a fluttering in Emet-Selch’s heart that he hasn’t felt in ages, and he grins.

“Don’t get smug! You think I haven’t thought of that?” Her words are strong, but she can’t even look him in the eyes now. “I--it’s already taken care of.”

His grin only broadens into mirth before he shifts her in his arms to hold her close, tilting his head to kiss her chastely on the cheek. “Shall we continue, then?” He nudges his hips forward to accentuate his request, chuckling at whatever mumbled words fall from the Warrior’s mouth. 

“Honestly, you’re so… you’re so…” 

“Yes, go on! Use your words, I want to hear this."

"You're… ahh…" She sighs as he withdraws from her body. "Infuriatin-- _nngh_!"

He smiles against her neck, reveling in the way her fingers dig into his back. 

"Do continue," he taunts, all low and breathy. "Or might I offer a suggestion or two?"

"Nnn… please…" He rocks his hips back and forth, groaning against her shoulder. 

"Yes, my dear?"

"Please don't."

He nearly snorts.

"Surely you can muster a single compliment. I assure you, I don't need to hear about this body's _endowments_ ," he punctuates with a firm thrust, "though I can easily adapt this vessel if it's not to your liking."

“S’fine…” she mutters against his mouth, words lost to what might be mistaken for moans of agony to anyone who would overhear. But in this place, in Emet-Selch’s hidden lair, there is no such danger.

“Not… one word for me?” he puffs out, breath rolling warm over her skin as he rolls his hips into her, setting the pace maddeningly slow. She begins to speak but the Ascian delves into her mouth with his tongue and silences her, leaving only the sharp inhale of breath through her nose and the rhythmic slick, wet sounds of their joining to fill the room. 

Her nails bite into him when she needs to come up for air, and though Emet-Selch releases her he remains close, eyes closed, breath mingling, as he presses his third eye into her forehead. As long as he stays like this it’s almost like back then. Her radiant aether embraced by his own, babbled adorations tumbling from her lips. She rocks her hips up to meet every thrust to take as much of him into her body as possible, the comforting embrace of her inner walls around his cock a mimicry of the way she clings to his body. It’s _almost_ like then, and Emet-Selch finds himself slipping.

“Beautiful… my beautiful soul,” he mumbles, not caring if the Warrior hears him. Even in this incomplete state she offers more comfort than he’s felt in countless lifetimes, the sort of comfort that only _she_ could ever provide. “You feel so good… so wonderful...”

She’s whining, close to her second climax. She wriggles against him until she’s created enough space to reach between, and briefly he feels her fingers where he pumps in and out of her before she sets about working herself to release. It’s quite a spectacle, the Warrior letting her head fall back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut and mouth opened wide as she focuses on completion.

“Going to come again, are you?” Emet-Selch purrs into her ear, nipping at the shell. “Go ahead, darling. Tell me how to finish you off.”

“Ahh, just keep… keep going,” she groans and Emet-Selch obeys, keeping his rhythm steady as the Warrior’s wailing scales higher and higher. When she peaks she trembles all around him and begins to cry out, but in a fit of passion the Ascian clamps his mouth over hers and swallows her scream. 

And something _changes_ , something unseen between them. When he lets her breathe she opens her eyes and gazes up at Emet-Selch with utter _adoration_. This look is… His breath stutters. It’s a look like Persephone would have given him, by Zodiark, the bit of her that _remembers_ is looking at him with such tenderness and then she’s pulling him close, her lips at his cheek, his temple, his mouth, encouraging him to share in her bliss and find his completion.

Emet-Selch slips further and further, clarity and reason bleeding away, washed out by the warmth and desire and _devotion_ from the woman in his arms. His movements quicken, become rougher as he loses control under the tide of his emotions, and he clamps his eyes shut as he feels a hotness prickling there. Persephone’s fingers thread through his hair as she cradles his head close, her legs pulling him in as deep as she can. 

“All for you…” he chokes out against her neck, “ _did it all for you_ …”

He drives his hips forward one last time before he releases with violent intensity, the rawness of his ecstasy causing time to blur. With every spasm he spills further into the welcoming heat below him, sticky seed laced with an abundance of his aether. 

When the tremors finally cease Hades feels entirely _drained_ , as if he has poured all of his strength out. Panting for breath he eases himself up to look her in the eyes, finding her sated and affectionate and… delirious. It’s then that he realizes his mistake, having exposed too much of himself through their connection. A quick check assures him that no lasting damage has been done. Put plainly, she is simply _drunk_ on Emet-Selch’s aether. A few hours of rest should set her right, but in the meantime--

“Ah, I need to… um… need t…”

The Ascian almost laughs at her attempt to speak through her exhaustion. He’s sure that she means to return to her rooms that night, but that isn’t going to happen. Not until he’s satisfied that she can string a coherent sentence together, at any rate.

With a bit of effort he disentangles himself from the Warrior’s limbs and collapses beside her, drawing amusement from the way her arms limply fall to the mattress as she quickly succumbs to sleep. His heart swells with pride to see how strong she has become, and yet there is a perverse glee in knowing that he shall be the one to break her. To think that he shall reclaim his beloved _and_ deny Hydaelyn her champion in one master stroke, and as the wretched Mother Crystal continues to wane in power there shall be no one left to set against Zodiark and his followers.

Hmm. A line of thinking best left for later, Emet-Selch decides, lest he wish to rekindle his arousal so soon.

Settling down into the bedding he draws the Warrior close, carefully brushing stray locks of hair from her face. Yes, he’ll need to return her to her Scions before long, but the time left to them with their cherished hero is about to be cut tragically short. Soon enough, she’ll be back at his side where she belongs. He promised her so very long ago that he intended to keep her _forever_ , and Hades always keeps his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the wonderful Starships for being my beta! <3
> 
> Are you a reader or writer who enjoys FFXIV fics? Consider joining a friendly and enabling group at the Emet-Selch discord! This story wouldn't exist without them. :)
> 
> https://discord.gg/ftFnYbe
> 
> Find me on Twitter: @AzureSummoner


	4. On a Wing and a Prayer (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch does something that he has not done in an age; he prays.

Emet-Selch awakens to a frantic Warrior of Light and Darkness shaking his shoulder. He blinks several times to clear the sleep from his eyes, stretches like a cat, and at last sits up on his elbows. She’s frowning.

“Are you listening? Take me back!” 

She’s bunched the sheets up around her breasts. Her modesty after the fact is charming. Then she clutches her forehead and topples forward into his grasp. Not fully recovered, then. 

“Ugh,” she mumbles. “My head feels strange. What did you _do_ to me?”

“I believe that’s called ‘having your brains fucked out’, my dear.”

“I regret asking.” He can sense the roll of her eyes in her voice. When she sits up, she refuses to look at him, tries to shield her face with a curtain of hair. That won’t do. He sweeps the tresses behind her shoulder and tilts her jaw until she’s forced to turn toward him, though she averts her eyes. 

She’s blushing.

“Wh—what are you doing?” she mutters. “You got what you wanted, so can we just…”

“Was I that disappointing?” He feigns hurt. “Or are you always this bad at pillow talk?"

"Th—that's not what this is!" she sputters, tugging away from his touch. "A bargain fulfilled, that's all. So, I should leave." He takes her by the hand, caressing with light brushes of his thumb. 

"Is that what you want?" He feels her pulse hammering in her wrist. She doesn't respond. He can read her inner conflict by the tells of her aether.

“I wager this is the first proper rest you’ve had since coming to this shard,” he teases. “Why not enjoy it?”

“If you’re offering sleep, I have a perfectly good bed at the Pendants.”

“I’ve seen your bed; little more than a sheet upon a slat of wood. I doubt you’ve slept in a bed so fine even on the Source.”

“Is this the Ascian, or the Emperor talking?” she quips. He rolls toward her, fingers trailing up to her shoulder, where he whispers into her ear.

"What we do here stays here. If you haven't satiated your curiosity, now would be the time." He says this and brushes his lips over her cheek. Her voice comes out uneven.

“... They’ll notice I’m missing. Ask questions. They --”

“They can wait,” he beckons, tiling her chin towards him. He presses their mouths together. 

She doesn’t pull away.

***

As the sun sets over the Crystarium, Emet-Selch’s mood spirals into darkness. 

_Damn these mortal shells_ , he thinks, digging fingertips into the thin flesh above his sternum. His chest aches. He’s nauseous. His temples throb, he’s short of breath, and his vision is dim around the edges. He recognizes the emotions boiling over within him, but it’s been so long since he’s experienced them he struggles to place their names. Are these signs of love? Despair? 

She’s compromised him, without so much as lifting a finger.

Hours after their tryst he remembers her sweet scent in his lungs, the warmth of her beneath him. The longing in her eyes while he was inside of her, begging for more. Seven hells, she’d reached for him. Her soul had responded to his touch. No mortal has ever reached for him, and no one with that color. It’s settled any lingering doubts; the Warrior of Light is Persephone, reborn.

His wife and partner whom he’d swore to find and never let go of again. Yet that was exactly what he’d done; he’d allowed her to leave. No. He had returned her, by his own hand no less. Back to her merry little band, who remain none the wiser to her escapade. 

He regrets missing lunch; there’s nothing but stomach acid that he might expel to relieve some of this pain.

A growl rumbles forth. He kicks a rock from his path, wishes for something to hit, or crush, or tear to shreds. She had been reborn on the Source, right under his nose. He cannot blame himself for missing her; the Warrior of Light was a nobody when Solus zos Galvus died. Why would he have spared a glance her way? He curses himself for the oversight.

She's still young. By his guess only twenty-four summers. And while he had laid dying in his mortal prison, Lahabrea had been set upon killing her. Then Nabriales, and Igeyorhm. Of course, they all died for their troubles. As for Elidibus, he would be wise to keep his lips sealed if he's so much as raised a hand. To think she could have been snuffed out before they met. What then? Would Hydaelyn have held her soul captive for another millenia? Or two, or twelve!?

How could she be the Warrior of Light? What cruel joke is this? Why must he be punished so?

Emet-Selch does something that he has not done in an age; he prays. He begs, pleads, and bargains with Zodiark to grant him this one selfish wish: to let him have Persephone. Grant her mercy and she will become His devout follower, serving Him by her husband’s side. It’s the only thing that he will ever ask for.

Warm liquid drips down his cheeks, falling from his chin to stain his gloves. These are… tears? His shoulders shake as he laughs. So, that man still lives inside of him? Hades has awakened from his long, long sleep, and it’s all because of her.

He wants to see her. He needs her, as a seedling needs the sun. Needs the radiant warmth of that beautiful, blue soul. 

He’ll pay her a visit. He doesn’t need an excuse; he’s Emet-Selch, an Ascian. The Scions are expecting him to display some underhanded behavior. No, that won’t do. He approached them with an earnest offer of cooperation, and the Angel of Truth does not lie. He has an honest interest in the Warrior’s well-being; that will serve as reason enough. 

_Just wait, Persephone. I’ll fix everything._

***

She snarls at him. He prepares to catch the pillow she’s ready to launch at him, from where she sits upon the bed. It never comes.

“You don’t sound very pleased to see me, hero.” That would be too much to ask.

She continues to mutter at him, but flubs her attempt to appear cold. Her cheeks darken. Something tugs in his chest. 

If only she would look at him like she did last night, with no lure of physical intimacy to siphon her soul’s dormant affections. He’s starved for her comfort; a mere smile would be enough to soothe him. Instead, she berates him for intruding in her rooms. He clutches at his chest dramatically, cut to the quick. She’ll read it as theatrics; it’s not for show. He plasters an affable smile on his face, while his heart aches with the longing of eons. 

_Hades!_

He’s never forgotten the sweet lilt of her voice calling his name. Her quiet sighs as they lay entwined. Her tenderness when she stroked his hair, or traced the contours of his cheek while whispering declarations of love and devotion.

After lifetimes apart she has returned to him; scowling. 

Last night’s developments are encouraging. Her soul bears memories of their love, even if her mind does not. One will follow the other, given the right encouragement. _She will remember._

She accuses him of games. She believes that his presence, his invitation to carnal delights are a means of distraction. The physicality is a bonus; what he wants is true intimacy. Her love, her tears, her companionship for eternity. He wants back his wife, whom Hydaelyn has stolen. Is that not fair?

She falters. Feeling emboldened, he pushes into her space. If physical closeness is all she’ll give him for now, it’s the hand he’ll play. If it gets her soul to respond to his like it did last night… He’s near enough that their lips are brushing. He wants to kiss her, and from the way she’s squirming he wagers that she wants to be kissed. Their breath mingles. She’s fighting her eyelids as they threaten to drift shut —

And shoves him. Not enough force to throw him off his feet. He stumbles, regains his footing, and grins. It’s getting to her; being alone together like this. Perhaps he should draw his cards close for the night. Let her emotions simmer. He’s planted the seeds, he can see how her aether flickers amidst her inner turmoil. He prepares to bow out when she rises from the bed.

She discards the pillow; forgotten. She takes an uncertain step and then, finding her courage, stalks toward him. The gleam in her eyes is predatory, and her aether crackles. It’s not from the cursed light that boils within her; it’s desire.

He arches an eyebrow. He expected her to chase him out, but this is… She backs him up until the backs of his knees hit a chair’s edge.

“Sit,” she commands. It would seem that she has plans.

He sinks into the chair, his eyes never leaving hers. Her pupils are blown wide, and he doesn’t miss the heave of her breasts below the thin shirt as she presses closer into his space. _Well now, where is this leading?_ Does she mean to tie him up? Sit in his lap? Perhaps --

She kneels. _Oh, Zodiark_.

She forces his knees apart as she edges in. She means to seduce him? Many interested parties sought his favor during his reign as Solus; he’s seen every trick in the book, from persons far more skilled at the game. Yet none hold a candle to the way she awkwardly grabs at his skirts. Watching the famed Ascian slayer struggle is a delight. It’s positively silly, and… entirely charming. 

She bunches the fabric up around his hips, and he smiles at his Persephone.

He takes immense interest in the way her lips twist and pout as she fumbles with his lacings. His cock grows hard as steel at the slight sheen of whatever lip balm she wears. He could take her by the chin, haul her up and paint those lips with his saliva; but his breeches have become painfully tight. Every misstep on her part is a teasing brush against his straining length. She understands, as evidenced by the blush in her cheeks. The close cut of his pants have made his interest abundantly clear. 

“Allow me,” he offers, covering her hands with his. The bindings easily come apart beneath his practiced fingers. She huffs, but any irritation fades into awe as he frees himself from his confines. Her throat bobs. This is the first look she’s had up close. Either she’s daunted by his endowment, or… The idea that she’s inexperienced sends a stuttering breath through him. Persephone had quite the oral fixation.

Then she looks at him, and his heart skips a beat. Alluring and sensual, but vulnerable. This isn’t, as she’d put it, a “favor”. She wants this. She wants _him_. 

She’s trying to hold all the cards as she takes him in hand, sending shivers along his spine. Her breath rolls warm over the tip of his aching cock. Their eyes meet; blazing sapphire and molten gold. He forgets to breathe as she bows down, his engorged head pushing past soft lips into an all-encompassing heat.

This changes things.

She pumps down the length of him, her tongue sliding against the underside of his shaft as she attempts to swallow him whole, until she gags. Tears spring at the corners of her eyes. Still the same, in this at least. Eager thing.

Her shortcomings fail to deter her. His cock slides wetly from her mouth. She switches her approach, pumping him with a pleasing grip. She worships every ilm of him with lips and tongue. He’s entranced, afraid to blink, as if he might wake to find that this has been another fantasy to haunt his long days. But no, she’s quite real. It’s impossible to mistake the color of her soul, no matter how diluted. And oh, she glows so much brighter in his presence.

He barely restrains an embarrassing groan, watching his length slide into her mouth once more. She bobs her head in a steady rhythm. His chest heaves. It’s nigh unbearable; watching himself disappear into her mouth, only to slip out soaked with spittle and pre-cum. She sucks at his tip as if she means to milk him. At this rate...

She stops, letting him pop from her mouth, and tilts her eyes up in a silent question. _Is it OK? Does this please you?_ Her lips glisten. A peek of tongue flicks out to catch the pearling fluid at his slit.

By Zodiark, forget his schemes. He’ll take her tonight.

“Keep going,” he urges. His voice comes out ragged. Her soul burns hot behind lust-glazed eyes. She eagerly opens her mouth for him again.

She’s beautiful. Different, but as lovely as the form he remembers. Would she be amenable to a haircut, he wonders? It’s the least of his concerns, though she would look so much like her former self. He’s so close to having her back. Seven hells, he wants to hold her. To feel her warm body pressed against him, while their aether plays and mingles. To run his fingers through her glossy hair while they lay together, trading secrets. 

But what's this? He shakes off his daydreams at the sound of her whining around his flesh. _Oh, dear_. She's so aroused that she's writhing for relief. He catches the not-so-innocent way she slips a hand beneath the short skirt she's wearing. His breath releases in a harsh puff of air. She's frustrated, and it's clear what she wants. 

_Sweet thing_ , he thinks, threading his fingers through her hair. To know his touch after so long must overwhelm; it's no wonder she can barely contain herself. Not after being wrapped in his aether. She knows her soulmate. Persephone has never forgotten. His most precious soul hasn't forgotten him, despite Hydaelyn's efforts. 

She deserves to be held close, cherished, and told how brilliant she is. She deserves all the love and passion that he can give her. There's no one else who can honor her as he can; not on this shard or any other. Only he knows how she likes to be touched and teased. He knows how to treasure and nurture her that her soul might shine its brightest. He has searched and waited for her across an eternity; no one can challenge his devotion.

No one else can protect her from Zodiark’s wrath. 

He's slipping. He's let his aether bleed toward her, violet stirring into blue, and it shows; she's trying to pull more of him in. She doesn't know how to draw out his aether so she responds physically, coaxing him ever closer to release. He bites back a groan while realigning his plans. He'll make it as easy as possible. No fear, no suffering. Like last night, he'll take her to exhaustion. Then, while her mind drifts in peaceful slumber, he'll take her before Zodiark. He'll defeat the vaunted Warrior of Light and reclaim his partner in one master stroke. 

She's become so strong. His heart swells with pride when he considers how powerful she is, and while missing near half of her soul! He'd always known she was the most talented of them all. She never believed him, but he had known. 

They'll have it all back: their love, their partnership, the future they'd dreamed of. With her might and his unparalleled sorcery they would be an unstoppable force. Hydaelyn is weak and waning; She cannot hope to raise another champion like Persephone. The Rejoinings will continue. Zodiark will be restored, their people resurrected. 

He‘ll have everything. He's going to…

"Oh, darling. I'm going to come," he warns, loosening his fingers in her hair. She could pull away. She could stop. She does neither.

Release crashes over him as a turbulent wave of emotion. Love, lust, and jealousy all surging forward to break among the rocks. His seed floods her eager mouth in thick ropes, spattering against the back of her throat. She swallows like a woman dying of thirst. His mind blanks, all of his awareness centered on that piece of flesh between his legs. And then it’s over.

He feels as though he’s surfaced after being held underwater too long, the deep pull of oxygen burning his lungs. As his brain clears, he considers that he should have warned her about the ability of a Garlean male to… produce. Her tongue scrapes over his tip, eliciting a sharp hiss. She’s… Zodiark help him, she’s licking him clean. The overstimulation is near painful, but he can’t tear his eyes away. So focused, so greedy, teasing every last drop free. And when she’s finished, she tucks him neatly into his pants before rocking back on her heels. _Fuck_.

Her eyes are on him, blue and brilliant and bewitching. A smile plays on her lips. She’s entirely blissed out from the flood of his aether. She’s _begging_ him to take her, without saying a word. He’d never let her want for anything.

With a sharp exhale he reaches out. _No more delays_. Twelve thousand years of loneliness ends now; fantasies of her pouting for him, calling for him, pinned beneath him flash through his mind. _Now you’ll be the one to suffer, Hydaelyn. Suffer without your champion._

His fingertips brush against her shoulders —

Once, again, thrice someone knocks at the door. As if waking from a spell, Persephone blinks, shaking her head to clear the lust. Some wretched intruder with a grim sense of timing has dashed his plans. They call for her. 

The Crystal Exarch.

“Are you in? I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I missed you at supper and…”

Emet-Selch withholds the obvious comment. _Go away_ , he thinks sourly, but she’s already upon him. A glance tells him that the mask of the Warrior has slipped back into place. “You need to leave!” she hisses under her breath. After the moment they’ve shared she’s throwing him out like trash. That hurts.

She scurries off to check her face in the mirror. By the time she looks back he’s slipped away through a cloud of aether, leaving no trace behind but the salt on her tongue.

***

Somewhere below the phantom of Amaurot, he kneels before a massive erection of violet crystal; the form of Zodiark. A bitter smirk curls his lips as he considers how she’s affected him these recent days. Praying. _Kneeling_. 

Only for her.

He repeats his earlier plea; let him have her. Return her to his side. It becomes a mantra, a spell, a temperament of its own. He recommits himself to his glorious mission, whatever it takes to have her back.

This time, Zodiark speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are a writer and/or enjoy FFXIV fics, come join a very friendly and enabling group: https://discord.gg/ftFnYbe
> 
> Find me on Twitter: @AzureSummoner


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